


Scent

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-23
Updated: 2008-04-05
Packaged: 2019-01-19 14:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12412083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Who would ever think that Peter Pettigrew, Pansy Parkinson & Dean Thomas would have something in common? Well, they do: they all crave the scent of a lover. [peter x lily, pansy x draco,  dean x luna, threeshot]





	1. Shampoo

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

She smells like summer, like ocean breezes and strawberry shampoo. Peter’s eyes absorb her, he is so enthralled that he almost doesn’t notice his friends’ stares, they are hazy remnants of a past and she is the bright everything that represents the present and the future. Something, somewhere in his mind, tells him to pinch himself, because he is dreaming, but it’s impossible for dreams to be this vivid, this real. And then he snaps out of his trance, the smell is still there, as alluring as ever, but so are his friends and their faces.

They are livid, but their harsh words and stares do not cut Peter the way he expected, because fury is supposed to burn, to make your heart bleed, and yet it doesn’t.

As she marches off, he can still smell her shampoo.

**\--**

She’s too good for me, he tells himself, because even if that’s not entirely true (he’s a Marauder and what are the Marauders if not adored and loved) it’s the only way he can forget her, because as much as he feels something when he sees her, and it’s so tantalising and exhilarating, but he needs to purge the memories, if only for the sake of remaining James’ friend.

Now, Lily is nothing but the indistinct shadow that lurks in his dreams, always dancing gracefully across the background, luring him and yet never coming any closer than she does in life. Even Peter’s dreams were designed to mock him, it seems.

Next Hogsmeade weekend, Peter buys a bottle of strawberry shampoo, ignoring the bewildered looks on the faces of his friends.

**\--**

Its essence is exactly like her, as fresh and invigorating, and yet it isn’t. The shampoo smells like her, but it isn’t her. It’s fake, just a smell, it can’t ensnare him quite the way she does in life.

But he still continues to sniff it, knowing, somewhere deep down inside, that this could be as close as he’ll get.

**\--**

The shampoo is comforting though, it’s like a drug that causes euphoria, except the euphoria is short lived. His mother once told him that a smouldering fire is more real and intense than sparks, because while sparks are electrifying and a vibrant display of light, smouldering fires are more real, they put more effort into developing themselves and they are just so real and intense.

Her strawberry scent may waft over him like the most luscious summer breeze, but it rarely lasts. It filters away quickly, leaving his body, his mind and his spirit aching for more, exactly like the sparks.

**\--**

It was always inevitable, Peter knew this, and he prepared himself for the harsh reality of it all before it even happened, but still his heart aches and his head protests. They were intangible, tangled and knotted and twisted and delirious. They fit together perfectly, their innocence is so genuine and Peter feels like he is drowning, they are the unreachable salvation and he is left to fend for himself, unsure which way is up and which way is down. He’s lost, and Lily is the shining beacon of light, but she’s being smothered and dulled in his eyes by James and his frequent, passionate kisses.

Sometimes, in that blurry, almost surreal world that lays somewhere between sleep, dreams and reality, he wonders if James can smell her shampoo as well.

**\--**

Peter is there when they first kiss; Sirius grins impishly, Remus is glowing and Peter just feels numb. He does not really exist; he’s just an empty shell, devoid of any real emotion and purpose. He wishes he felt searing pain ripping through his muscles, or his fragile heart shattering into a million pieces as though it was nothing more than glass. Something, anything to make sure he really was alive.

They kiss again; Lily’s face is glowing with a gorgeous smile that makes her shine like the sun and James is nothing short of over the moon. Peter doesn’t believe in astrology, because the stars are doing a poor job of controlling his love life, but he knows that the planets are aligned, that the stars are nodding contentedly. Lily and James are destiny.

Tugging on Sirius’ arm, Peter gestures back towards the castle, wanting to do nothing more than cower under the sheets like the little boy that he is and hibernate until the world is sunshine and rainbows again.

Instead, he sits on the toilet, head in hands, sniffing a bottle of strawberry scented shampoo.

**\--**

Peter is the first person James approaches when he decides to marry Lily. He knows this is only because Sirius will laugh and Remus is on mission for the Order, but he appreciates the gesture all the same. He clasps his friend’s hand, ignoring the fact that it is sweaty and disgusting. Peter just nods his approval, if he tried to spit out anything else he would most probably choke, not on saliva but on bottled up emotions, all of which are straining and daring to attempt to bubble over and cause a mess.

So James proposes, and Peter stands torpidly in the photo, as close to Lily as he can possibly get without it becoming suspicious.

That night, he grabs the shampoo bottle, before thinking better of it. Its heavenly scent only lasts for a minute or so. Instead he reaches to his bedside table, complete with a mug of cold tea, and longingly grasps the photo, before viciously tearing away the section that contains his fellow Marauders. Tapping it with his wand, he neatens the scraggly edge, and tucks it under his pillow.

The shampoo may provide quick relief, but photos and memories last forever.

**\--**

Peter sits in the front row at Lily and James’ wedding, making polite talk with Lily’s sister, who’s obviously horrified by the sheer number of witches and wizards in attendance.

He’s elated on James’ behalf, for his friend has finally achieved his childhood dream, but something seems to be chewing away at his heart, casting murky shadows and doubt upon their relationship, whispering that it should have been him instead.

Peter pushes the voice away, and goes to ask the bride for the next dance.

Even after all this time, she still smells like shampoo.

He leans his head on her shoulder, drinking in the scent, revelling in the closeness that he’s always been denied.

“I love you Lily,” he whispers, and she stiffens, she pulls away, but she also seems unfazed. Lily has always been rational.

“I’m sorry Wormtail,” she says, and that’s all it takes. Peter feels that horrid drowning sensation again, he has to get away before he suffocates in memories that while wonderful are now also painful and poisonous. Dwelling on the past aches, rips a little, unrepairable hole in his heart, but pondering a future full of unreciprocated feelings is even worse.

He throws the shampoo bottle in the bin.

**\--**

Two days later, Peter sends an owl to Lucius Malfoy, who’s intimidating, but Death Eaters, as he’s heard they call themselves, are above love, and that’s exactly where he wants to be.

He also rescues the shampoo bottle from the bin.

 


	2. Of Drawings and Futures

Dean laughs as she scrabbles about the dank, putrid room, attempting yet another fruitless search. Gently, he sketches the outline of her face, his eyes tracing every contour of her cheeks, but concrete and a rusty pocket knife cannot capture that ethereal glow on her face. Drawing is his salvation, his escape from the deepest pits of insanity, and yet, lately everything he creates looks so crude and rudimentary.

“What are you doing?” Luna’s question is not probing, merely an expression of curiosity.

“You.”

Dean says this without any trace of shame. Once, he would have lied, too embarrassed by the whole situation to do anything more than stumble over a false answer. Now, there’s no point, any traces of dignity once possessed are absorbed, soaked into the spasmodic sleep and disjointed plans for escape and freedom.

Luna nods thoughtfully, her blue orbs wide with an unidentifiable emotion – is it intrigue or simply a longing for basic human interaction? In this dreadful pit, with its ceaseless smell of mildew and its sinister shadows, it’s impossible to tell.

Ollivander’s snores persist; night after night they puncture the air, piercing the silence like a knife as his mouth droops and a slight trail of saliva slithers along his chin like a snake.

“Can I see it?”

It’s Dean’s turn to nod now as she leans over him, her own half-finished face looming in front of her. As Luna’s shoulder grazes his cheek, skin caressing skin, he can’t help but notice he smells different. Luna smells like dreams. There’s not a definable scent, no definition that can be reinforced by a textbook. There’s nothing to explain _this,_ nothing to explain why she smells like everything Dean has ever wanted. She just does.

Dean smells it again and again, her scent haunts every stifled conversation, all smothered by a blanket of secrecy lest the Malfoys hear. It lingers in every moment, whether he’s conscious or in slumber.

If it wasn’t so damn confusing, Dean would be convinced he’s possessed.

Instead, he just sits there, silt seeping into the seat of his pants (how long has it been since he’s had a shower anyway – time is indefinable here, it’s measured in food deliveries from a leering, rat-faced man and snippets of news about the outside world), surrounded by half drawn figments of his imagination and wondering what the hell in Merlin’s name happened for him deserve such a tantalising fate.

Luna’s scent wafts constantly through his nostrils and his mind, and then Harry comes - their knight in shining armour, only he has no intention of falling for this knight because somehow, his subliminal mind has managed to fall for someone else – and they escape, fleeing into comfort’s open arms. The scent is still there, but it’s weaker, as though it is fragile, easily broken when not fuelled by peril.

“Have you ever thought about the future?” Dean asks one day, when the ghosts of Malfoy Manor have started to fade into oblivion.

“The future is indefinable. Daddy always says that no-one can predict it and that Trelawney’s a fraud under the influence of Nargles.” Luna lets out a giggly little laugh that reminds him of Lavender, and he shudders, because there is absolutely nothing in Luna that is like that … that _twit;_ Luna’s so much more wholesome and real.

“I know, but then again … she _did_ predict Hermione leaving our class back in third year. What I mean though, is, do you ever dream about the future – you know, what’s the job you want, who’s the person you want to marry.”

Dean makes every attempt to keep his voice candid, but his heart is racing, and he seriously doesn’t know why. All he knows it that no-one, not even Ginny, has ever made him feel quite like this.

“Me? Marry? Do you know how many people would laugh at that?” It’s so matter of fact; the words flee her throat with no emotions attached, it scares him.

“I wouldn’t.”

Luna nods yet again, as though she has no idea how to respond, which, Dean rationalizes, she probably doesn’t.

“Thanks.”

It’s just a simple gesture, nothing more than an exchange between friends, between two people who have laughed together and cried together and endured hell together, and yet, in this garden, sparkling with sunlight and reeking of sea salt and of _her_ , it means everything.

And then she runs off and gets married to that Rolf guy, who hasn’t been through half as much with her as he has, and it still means everything, but now it’s everything heartbreaking, and nothing right, and he wonders, just occasionally, if she smells as good to Rolf as she did to him.

 


	3. The Smell of a Man

Pansy sits in the front row at his wedding, close enough that his musky scent wafts past her nose, but far enough away that her hands cannot penetrate the barrier that has formed between them, brutally forcing them apart. He smells like a man, like sweaty bed sheets resting taut against pulsating muscles and moist skin, and like Firewhiskey; the scent is so fierce and demanding that the repugnant taste of liquor seems to be creating a trail of fire in her throat.

She’s aching to scream “screw you Draco, screw you,” but she can’t, because she is Pansy Parkinson, friend of the groom, not Pansy Parkinson, jealous cow, buried deep under the sands of regret and unreciprocated love. It’s his big day, and fuck, it’s unfair and it aches and she’s being controlled, tasting the forbidden fruit and preparing to fight before being yanked back into submission by the invisible hands that claw at her body and saturate her heart and weigh her down.

“You may kiss the bride.”

Draco and Astoria’s lips smash and tears fall – glistening raindrops that caress Astoria’s silken skin and Pansy is oblivious to it all. It’s not life that’s the bitch, not in this case anyway, because it’s Astoria Greengrass.

**\--**

Draco stumbles up to her later, when she’s drifting around; floating amongst the sea of people as though she actually gives a shit about this wedding. His breath is heavy on her face as she nibbles gently on a watercress sandwich; he’s damn drunk, putrid alcohol flowing through his veins and his breath like rivers winding towards her heart. Pansy’s fingers tighten as she fights her urge to stroke his face, to feel the coarse strands of platinum blonde under her fingers as she did so many years ago, before … that … that _thing_ invaded his life and destroyed her.

“I love you Pansy,” he mumbles, with shaking hands and slurred words that stumble into each other. Her heart stops. There’s one final, deafening thud, and then it falls to the pits of her stomach, lifeless.

“Piss off Draco, you’re drunk.” Pansy doesn’t even know where the words are coming from, but he’s wobbling and his breathing is laboured and fuck, is she really that worthless? Every syllable snaps inside her like elastic, pushing out regret and hatred and despair. “You never loved me, you love her. What am I Draco? Am I just the pug faced girl who stroked your hair when you talked about Him and listened to you when you were scared? Screw you Draco, screw you. I don’t care what you think anymore.”

She turns; the heel of her shoe grating the cold marble floor; it’s the exact texture of Draco’s face, and she imagines it’s his head under her foot, and she has absolutely no idea where this rage is coming from but it feels so damn _wonderful._

Words cross lips and whispers filter through the air as she storms out, and he staggers after her, hands clinging to the bottle of Firewhiskey. For a minute, Pansy feels sorry for Astoria Greengrass, because no-one wants their wedding marred by drunk husbands and shouting guests, but it’s only fleeting, because she can smell Draco again, that same manly smell that has tortured her all day.

She supposes he’s always smelt like this, but why, oh God why, did she have to realise it now, right when he’s slipping through her fingers, an ice-cube in the heat of the sun, trickling away from her. It’s everything she’s ever wanted, for him to love her, and yet he’s drunk and Pansy knows it will mean nothing after Draco takes tomorrow’s anti-hangover potion and –

\- and yet she still turns back towards him, she still wants him, she still imagines his lips on her and their bodies matching together like the last two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, having found their final place.

“You smell beautiful,” Pansy whispers, “like everything I’ve ever wanted. He’s the forbidden fruit all right, but who really cares, she’s doing this and she’s leaning and it’s wonderful and damn he smells even better from less than an inch away and he’s stumbling again and pushing away and those stupid bloody invisible hands are yanking at her again.

“Pansy, what do you think you’re doing?”

There’s no need for a response, everything is obvious. Astoria has won the prize; she gets to sink her teeth into the fruit, and Pansy gets to walk away, having won nothing and having lost her pride. And why, oh why, did she have to pick today to discover such a luscious scent?

Why did she have to pick today to realise she loved him? And why did he have to smell so damn good?

 


End file.
